


synonyms: burden, beset, beleaguer

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Haunting, M/M, Romance, STG, Sherlock believes in ghosts, Smut, Unilock, camp gay, ghost looooooooooove, ghost!John, grumpy bisexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: Sherlock has been looking for proof that ghosts exist for years. He moves into a house that is meant to be haunted for that reason exactly. Can he win over the poltergeist? What would that even look like?





	1. Haunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [1butterfly_grl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1butterfly_grl1/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [Le_Tabby_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tabby_Cat/gifts), [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/gifts), [kitmerlot1213](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmerlot1213/gifts), [Oleta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oleta/gifts), [Choice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Choice/gifts), [Jberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/gifts), [EllieSaxon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieSaxon/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [cheekycheekbones (Cheeycheekbones)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeycheekbones/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [kree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kree/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [wintersnest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnest/gifts), [YoYoMo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoYoMo/gifts), [MrsMusicAddict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMusicAddict/gifts).



The house didn't look particularly haunted; there were no dead plants or things peeking out through the empty windows. Sherlock sat on his luggage at the kerb and frowned. One of his flatmates, the ginger one, knocked into him and nearly sent him sprawling to the ground. Sherlock caught himself at the last second and turned to scowl at the man. Bespectacled and scrawny, he gave a small apologetic nod and scooted out of the way, dragging his box of bits behind him towards the house.

"You said it was haunted," Sherlock shouted to another man, crossing his arms and pouting.

Marty, or Mitchell, or something of the sort, turned off the car and got out. "Yeah."

"It doesn't look haunted," Sherlock replied, refusing to look over his shoulder to meet the man's eyes.

"Tell that to the kid who ran screaming from it last month before we agreed to move in, or the one that jumped from the roof," Marty...Mitchell...Mike, shot back.

Sherlock perked up at that. "Suicide. Interesting."

Mike smiled at him and went about getting his things from the boot. "You know, you said that out loud," he chided gently, but Sherlock wasn't listening.

Sherlock was odd, he knew that, so the comment didn't surprise him. He supposed you'd have to be a bit odd to be riffling through body parts at the frequency he did. And, no, he wasn't really meant to be flatting with them, as he wasn't from their school, but he spent enough time at Bart's to have a tentative rapport with many of the teachers. Teachers were the only people Sherlock didn't seem to view as idiots, and only just some of them fit the bill.

"Coming in?" Mike asked as he locked up the car and stood next to Sherlock with his own luggage.

Sherlock was staring up at the highest window, into the dark room, and daring something to stare back. Just once, just bloody once, he'd liked to be knocked off his feet.

Mike snorted at the way Sherlock scrunched up his nose. "You want the attic?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, hefting his suitcase onto his shoulder and walking up the small, neatly manicured path to the front door. 

Mike rolled his eyes and grinned and followed.

_____

By age twenty-five Sherlock had been dead twice. Well, one and a half times. 

The first time occurred when he was still very young. He'd fallen through the ice and into the lake by his childhood home. He could still remember the sound the ice made as it gave way, a sickening crack he could never quite shake. He'd been declared dead for a whole minute and a half before he was brought back. 

At that time, standing outside his own body felt horribly frightening. He screamed at his family to see him, to stop staring at that strangely familiar dead boy and just hear him. One minute can feel like days when something like that happened. 

The second time had been a year and a half prior. He didn't mean to OD, but it was before he checked the purity of his drugs, so it was bound to happen. He'd only got halfway out of his body that time. He stared down at it as he floated, and then vomited and was pulled back in.

What the two times had in common, was that outside his body he was not alone. There were others there. It wasn't how people usually described a sense of togetherness with the world, or a feeling that they were 'not alone'. All that feel good, warm and fuzzy, return from the dead because god loves you crap was preposterous. It was what people wanted to believe, so it was what got plastered on the news from time to time. No. There were other people, other dead people, and he had seen them.

He started reading up on the like as soon as he got out of hospital the first time, tearing through tomes at the library and making his own notes. His parents were tempted to send him to therapy, but his older brother changed their minds. Mycroft had told them that if they took away the thing that interested Sherlock the most, they would be stunting his intellectual growth. They took the comment well, even coming from an eleven-year-old.

So, before he was interested in dead bodies, Sherlock was interested in the dead.

He hoped that this semester would be fruitful. He hoped that his new residence would contain the proof he needed. He was, against all odds, hopeful.

_____

That first night, Sherlock got ready for bed as if he were a normal person. It was eleven at night and the chill was leaking in through the single pane window as he pulled on his pyjamas and his ratty, woolen jacket. He'd placed a chair beneath the window when he found it could be opened and sat for a moment smoking out of it and thinking about his plan.

From what he'd learned that day from the microfiche at the college library, the student that jumped from the roof had complained to his flatmates about strange noises and things being moved. Sherlock had already set up cameras and triggers for alarms all around the house, no one seeming to notice as they unpacked their things. He figured all he had to do was wait, and when his things arrived later the next day, his laboratory would be the perfect place to do so.

He stamped out his cigarette on the windowsill and closed it carefully before turning out the light and slipping under the covers. He forced his eyes to close and worked on steadying his breathing. If the house was really haunted, the poltergeist would be happy to disturb the sleep of the first residents in years.

The house had been set for a bit of a revamp two years prior. It took those two years to get it done, as lighting wouldn't seem to work on certain days and machinery went missing, just to show up in places it had no right to be. The house went through three sets of workers before it was all done, as the neighbor, a sweet old woman, had told Sherlock before supper.

"Lights on in the middle of the night when no one was around and strange holes dug in the ground," she'd said with a huff. "I hope you boys can keep him busy."

Sherlock couldn't wait to meet the 'him' she was taking about.

The light in the closet turned on, a soft glow beneath the door, and Sherlock grinned to himself. This was going to be exciting.


	2. John

John loved war. 

It was a horrible thing to say about a horrible situation, but there it was. In war, he was in his element. Everything he hated about society was gone. No one expected him to smile at them and ask how their day was, no one bothered him beyond what he was there to do. Everyone had a role, and the camaraderie acted out around the basecamp was highly choreographed. Once the other men knew him, he was left to himself, left to read his medical texts and work, the only two things in life that interested him.

Oh, and then there was the sex. Sex during war was exponentially better. He didn't have to pretend to share himself with someone emotionally to get off, he only had to get off. No one wanted a relationship with him, even if it were permitted, so he didn't have to be someone he wasn't. 

It's understandable then, that when John was sent home just five years after enlisting, he was upset. He wanted to come home with the money needed to go to medical school, and what he came home to with was PTSD, injury, and a loneliness he hadn't truly been expecting. 

He'd always been a loner, taught young that opening up to people often ended in a bloody nose, and had liked it that way, or at least convinced himself that he liked it. He hadn't made any real friends in the army, besides Bill, who had saved his bloody life, so his loneliness was more based on isolation. He didn't want people to talk to, really, he just wanted people around.

He tried to go to therapy, but it didn't seem to help. If he couldn't talk to a person he knew about his issues, what chance did some random doctor have.

So, when he was hit by a bus and plucked quickly and efficiently from his mortal form, he wasn't in the best of moods.

_____

He'd been killed right out that front door, on his way to a lecture in his human anatomy class. He was walking across the street and stumbled and just...didn't exist anymore. There were all these people gathered around his body, and he couldn't seem to figure out how to get by them in his new spiritual form, so he never got to see it. He wondered if that were for the best. He must have been horribly mangled.

It took quite a while for him to understand it was all over. When he'd been shot he'd had the same situation happen, the out of body experience, so he figured he would just get back into his body at some point. 

It lasted for minutes, people gathering around the scene while he stood on the kerb watching, unable to move. By the time the medics got there he was screaming at them to hurry up, knowing somewhere in his heart that he wouldn't make it. A whole half hour passed before they zipped him into a body bag, the last bit of himself tucked away in the dark as he watched. 

Funny, how that settled him. The raging inside him stopped and he simply went to sit on the front steps.

...and he never left.

_____

Mrs. Hudson had always seen ghosts. It was just in her makeup, she figured. Her grandmother had seen ghosts and made a fine profit as a medium and taught her that it was nothing to fear. It was still a surprise when one moved in next door.

"Are you alright, dear?" She asked, stepping through the gate and into the yard one night. 

The boy, mid twenties when he passed she reckoned, had been standing there in the back garden for the past hour while she made dinner and ate. She'd watched him through the kitchen window and finally took pity.

He looked over at her with disbelief, and vanished. Poof. Like a plume of smoke.


	3. Attic

Why couldn't they just keep out of the attic? That was all John wanted, just his own space. It was the reason the renovators had hated him; he'd stolen their tools and messed with the wiring every time they attempted to change the room. He knew that if it got any sort of update from the way it was, what with the draft and the mold climbing up the far wall, it would be turned into another bedroom. He just honestly felt that he should be able to have his own bloody room, since he couldn't seem to leave the place.

Each time John tried to leave he would make it right to the edge of the property and find himself once again in the attic. It was what happened the first day, and every day after for three weeks until he stopped trying. Now it had been three years and he was close to being able to consider possibly trying to leave. 

The problem was that the moment between, when he'd just stepped off property and before the attic, he wasn't there anymore. For the blink of an eye he was gone. When you're dead already, the prospect of losing just that one last piece of yourself is beyond daunting. He was afraid that if he pressed his luck again he might just slip into the void.

And now, laying in the bed across from him, was yet another block on his path to comfort. A human. Tall and handsome and grinning to himself as he wrote in a notebook that the light in the closet had come on.

"You won't be grinning for long," John said, though no one could hear him, and went back to sitting alone in the closet and counting the minutes.

_____ 

It had been three days, three days of trying to convince the man to move to a more suitable bedroom, and John was exhausted. He'd never met someone like this man, Sherlock. Nothing he did brought forth even a glimmer of fear. That, and he was conversing with Mrs Hudson.

"You really ought to eat more, dear," she said as she watched him fill in a hole in the backyard after taking a sample of the dirt.

John had taken to digging holes in the garden when he was bored. Just, you know, something to do. He wasn't sure what Sherlock hoped to find in the sample, or what he could possibly be leaving behind.

"No time for eating," Sherlock replied, stamping the dirt down. "I've experiments to run."

And, oh, the experiments. The second day Sherlock was at the house a large truck had lumbered up and the attic, John's attic, had been turned into a makeshift laboratory. Sherlock still slept there, when he did sleep, but now he also spent nearly every waking moment in the room. John couldn't wait for school to start back up so he could have some time alone.

"One bite," Mrs Hudson said, holding a chocolate digestive out to Sherlock through the heart-shaped hole in the gate.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sauntered over, taking the digestive from her once he'd removed one of his gloves and chewing it quickly. Mrs Hudson looked over his shoulder and seemed to see John watching them. She gave a little wave and John left, embarrassed and not sure why.

He'd only just levitated to the attic when he heard Sherlock running up the stairs. It was like someone let a buck in; clack, clack, clack. Sherlock burst through the door and walked right into John, standing with John's shoulder poking out of his chest as he readied the soil for examination.

"Are you digging for the murder weapon?" Sherlock asked, as he was prone to. "Did you get killed on the property? Is the weapon buried?"

John sighed and stepped out of Sherlock, looking the man up and down with exasperation. He'd been talking to John almost nonstop for the last few days. He was sure that if he could solve John's murder (not murder, damnit) that John would be free to go to the afterlife.

"A murder would be much more interesting than an accident," Sherlock said, bending to look into his microscope.

"Yes, well," John replied, unheard, "sometimes life is boring."

Sherlock stood up as if he had heard, and a chill ran through John.

"Mike's home," Sherlock said, dashing the thought from John's mind. 

John chuckled at himself, the spook, spooked, and reached up to brush at a leaf that was stuck in Sherlock's hair. It fell to the floor lazily and Sherlock murmured his thanks before going back to his experiment. 

John scrunched up his nose at it, the simple acknowledgment of his action and existence, and shook his head. He'd never be rid of this peculiar man.


	4. John Watson

Sherlock found nothing in the soil sample and sat back with a sigh. "Not even sure I know what I was looking for."

"At least we have that in common," John said, hovering over his shoulder before slumping to the bed.

Sherlock stood and went to put his jacket on. He looked around the room, mouth twisted up. "You're here, aren't you?"

John scrunched up his nose, once again wondering if the man could sense him.

"Do that thing with the light then," Sherlock pressed. "Turn it on and I'll know."

John crossed his arms and resolutely did no such thing. Who in the hell did Sherlock think he was? Demanding some response as if John were a trained monkey.

A smile twitched at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Stubborn. Well, I'm off, anyhow. I am going to find out who you are, you know. It's only a matter of time."

John scowled at him as he left, and then, for some unknown reason, wished he would come back. Odd, that.

_____

Sherlock went to the local library and started combing through past newspapers, looking for deaths near the house. From what he'd read in multiple accounts, the dead often had a difficult time leaving the place they died. If they had unfinished business, that was.

He came upon the student that jumped from the roof and printed out the article. It was possible, of course, that there were two ghosts on the property. He felt, though, that he would have noticed. So far the supposed haunting hadn't been particularly malevolent. The first day the spirit had tossed all of his clothes on the floor and locked the attic door from the inside, but since then it seemed to have given up its havoc and gone about trying to ignore him.

He was starting to wonder, after the leaf had been pulled from his hair earlier that day, if the spirit had given up completely.

The neighbor, Mrs H, seemed to think the ghost was of a man who was killed out front several years prior. She said she could see him, although it was only a dark outline, and that he wasn't really bad.

"The boy who jumped from the roof had just lost his mother and father in a car accident," she'd explained. "I wouldn't blame our ghost on the jump."

And, as he saw, she was right. Mother and father killed in the middle of exams. Sherlock could hardly blame him. He went back through the newspapers to find out if the rest of her story held up.

_____

Back to digging holes. It seemed almost impossible that digging holes could be any less satisfying, but impossible kept happening to John.

Mike was standing at the back door so John found himself digging the next hole behind a tree. He was bloody hiding. How ridiculous was that? He slammed the shovel back into the ground, an action that had taken him months to perfect, and slumped down to rest against the tree trunk.

What was he doing? What kind of existence leaves you pestered by a man you can't even tell to bugger off? 

He wanted to leave, he wanted-

"John?"

Something slick and cold turned in John's stomach at hearing his name for the first time in years.

"John Watson. Formerly of the Northumberland Fusiliers?" 

John turned to see Sherlock leaning out the back window and staring at where the shovel hovered in the air. Said shovel dropped to the ground with a thump and John swallowed and watched as Sherlock ducked out of the window.

Should he run? Should he leave and not have to stand, unable to answer the questions that might come? How had this happened? How had any of this happened?

Before he could do anything Sherlock had jogged down the stairs and out to where John was sitting. John stared up at him, the grief he hadn't felt in so long swirling around his head and making him sick.

"You were studying to be a doctor," Sherlock said, out of breath and grinning.

John's jaw clenched.

Sherlock looked around as if he might see John. "I could get you books. Not the boring texts Mike and that lot bring home, but good ones. I have connections at the morgue."

John huffed out a laugh and felt tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

"It must be painfully boring not having anything to do. I suppose that's what the holes are for. Bui of manual labor to pass the time," Sherlock said, pushing some of the dirt back into the hole John had just made with one expensive shoe. "And...I could use an assistant," Sherlock added.

John swallowed hard and laughed. "Of course you could use an assistant. You git."

Sherlock's smile widened as a warm breeze brushed against his cheek. John hadn't even realised he'd done it.

"Books then. Back in no time flat," Sherlock said, turning to leave. "And make us some tea. Might be a long night."

John heaved out another laugh and fell back against the tree.

_____

Several hours later, Sherlock returned with a good stack of books. John hadn't made tea, still not sure if he was comfortable with giving himself away completely, but Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. Instead, he simply lay the books on the bed and started in on another experiment.

"Hand me that, would you?" Sherlock said sometime later, reaching to his left for something to stir his experiment with. 

And no, it wasn't a question. John had made the mistake of rolling the pen towards Sherlock's hand earlier that morning when the man had needed it. And, Christ, it hadn't been out of kindness or a liking for the man, it had been out of sheer need. He NEEDED Sherlock to bloody shut up and the man was saying the word 'biro' over and over again while doing a shite job of actually looking for one. John honestly thought he'd attempt to jump out the window if it went on any longer.

John crossed his arms and stared at the thin metal stick. He should have left, he should have walked downstairs and found a safe place to hide. Instead, he was stubborn.

"I know you're there," Sherlock added, wiggling his fingers. "I honestly don't see why we can't just work together."

"What are you even saying?" John shouted, turning and going to stick his head through the window. 

Sherlock felt the cold breeze the move caused, and frowned. "Well, that's just rude."

"What's rude?" John shot back, wishing more than ever that he could be heard. "Is that you just expect me to-"

John jumped across the room just in time to catch the beaker as it fell. Sherlock watched with wide eyes as it hovered in the air. Just a few milliseconds later and the acid would have poured into his lap.

They stayed there, panting, for a few seconds before John carefully set the beaker back in its place, noting the half melted biro floating in it, and realised Sherlock had attempted to stir the concoction with it. Mad, absolutely-

"That was..." Sherlock said, his voice a soft puff against John's ear, "rather good of you."

John breathed out forcefully through his nose and smacked Sherlock's knuckles with the metal stirrer. Sherlock winced and turned around, eyes darting this way and that. John didn't know it, but his nervous laughter was what set Sherlock's off. It rolled over Sherlock in a warm, tickling wave and they were suddenly laughing together in the attic like old friends.

When Sherlock finally settled down he was somehow softer around the edges. "Well, I suppose I deserved that," he admitted, voice rumbling out of him and causing John to pause.

That smile, that particular, crinkling, broken, smile! John could FEEL that smile! God, how peculiar! He hadn't felt anything in years and now there was a warmth spreading over him and he could barely move. He was stuck there soaking up the warmth, stuck there with that madman, and for the first time since they had met, he was happy for it.


	5. Colour

Sherlock fell asleep sitting by the window and reading, later that night. John had been watching him and went to gather him up and tuck him into bed. Crazy man, working until he burned out. Sherlock mumbled as he was moved and stretched out to take up the whole of the bed once he was in it. John pulled up the duvet and patted Sherlock's shoulder.

His hand hesitated there and Sherlock pushed against it, pressing into the touch. 

Pressing.

John was overwhelmed by how warm the man was. He had begun to forget what warmth was; the the only time he'd touched anything warm in the last few years was to either knock it over or push it out of the way. Now that he had his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, well, as much of a hand as a spirit has, he couldn't seem to take it away.

When he finally did it was to scare the crap out of one of the other students by not only turning on the kettle, but pouring himself a cuppa, within full view.

He took the mug upstairs and sat in the chair up against the window. He couldn't drink it, but he could hold it, and he did so; sitting and listening to the rain, and watching Sherlock sleep.

_____

Classes started two days later and John found himself alone in the large house with nothing to do. Digging holes in the rain was no fun, as they were filled as quickly as they were dug, but he couldn't stand to be inside. He switched the light on in the attic and trudged down the stairs, rubbed the wrong way and not sure why.

He found himself outside Mrs Hudson's kitchen window, watching her bake.

Now, he'd been thoroughly happy living alone without anyone to talk to for a very long time, and he'd never been particularly close to even his family, but there was something different in him just then. Each time she'd spoken to him in the past, he'd run away. This time, when she opened the window and whispered a quick hello, he stayed. 

It felt like ants were crawling on his arms with her looking right at him, and the second she looked back down to her dough, he was relieved.

"You've got a bit of colour," she said sweetly. 

John looked down at himself but only saw the same old him.

"Used to be just a shadow," she explained. "Must be that Sherlock. Lord knows he barely talks of anything else. John this, and John that."

John knew that Mrs H and Sherlock talked everyday, but he'd always stayed at a distance, not wanting her gaze. It was strange to think of someone talking about him.

"Says your name like a prayer sometimes," she added, and then, looking back up, "well, do you talk?"

John vanished like a puff of smoke and came to in the attic.

_____

Sherlock made it home the next night, walking up the stairs slowly and collapsing onto the bed.

"Where the hell have you been?" John shouted, inadvertently burning out the lights in the room.

"Ah," Sherlock said rolling onto his side, "that's better."

John threw his hands up and stalked to look out the window.

Sherlock sat up at that and peered into the dark room. "Are you...are you angry?"

John watched as Sherlock jumped up and measured the temperature in the room. He forgot to do so when he'd entered, but the heat had been on in the house all day and it should have been sweltering. Instead, the windows started to clear of their fog and Sherlock wasn't prompted to remove his scarf.

"Well, obviously you're in a poor mood. Have you finished the books I brought? Is that it? I can get more," Sherlock said, walking aimlessly and looking about.

The temperature dropped again; barely noticeable, but still.

"For god's sake," Sherlock replied with a sigh, "just write it down. Honestly, we both know you can hear me, so-"

And it was crazy, absolutely mad, but how were you meant to act around a madman? Sober was not the way John felt like responding, so he picked up the biro Sherlock had used to note the temperature and started to write.

WHERE WERE YOU?

Sherlock fumbled for his mobile and held it up to the paper. His lips curled at the shaky writing. "Hand-eye coordination has taken a hit, I see. That's what happens when you get out of practice."

John rolled his eyes and quickly underlined the question.

"I had a case," Sherlock said, "well, a small one. Came out of nowhere after my second class. And, yes, it took an embarrassingly long time to solve, for such a small matter, but there you have it."

When the silence dragged Sherlock cleared his throat and filled it. "I'm...I'm sorry if you were worried."

John laughed weakly and ran a hand through his hair, the room growing almost abusively warm. "Well, not as though you have my mobile number," he said, unheard.

Sherlock smiled and unwound his scarf. "That's it, then? You were worried about me?"

John felt silly and turned away.

"You can't leave, can you?" Sherlock asked, suddenly breathing so close to John that he thought he could taste him.

When no reply came, either in temperature change or written form, Sherlock cleared his throat and went on. "If I was stuck here all the time, I'd start digging holes too."

John snorted and picked the biro back up.

INSTEAD OF FILLING THEM IN?

"Yeah," Sherlock replied, chuckling a bit, "well that's your fault, isn't it. Mrs Hudson can't stand the look of them, you know."

And before John could reply Sherlock was going downstairs to rustle up some fresh bulbs, and John was feeling so much lighter.


	6. A Bit

It had been three days and John hadn't written anything down. Sherlock hadn't pushed him, worried that it would take a ridiculous amount of energy for John to do so. But now, the silence had become too much, what with him knowing it didn't have to be.

It was late at night. Not so late that the world seemed to drag, but late enough that everything, especially the small attic, seemed overly intimate. There was one light on above Sherlock's head and one by the window, and if Sherlock could have seen John he would have felt they were acting as moths, hovering. The rain on the window was the only sound and it pulled at something in Sherlock's chest. Too quiet.

"Darren seems to think he saw a ghost," Sherlock said, bent over a school book and writing out formulas while attempting not to fall asleep standing up.

John paused where he was sifting through some papers Sherlock had brought him, and looked up. Darren. Oh, one of the students. John felt guilt and fear swirl in his belly before he could tamp it down and convince himself he was safe. It wasn't like anything could happen to him, after all...anything more.

"I don't think making tea in front of someone counts as a proper haunting...but it begs the question; what did you do with it?" Sherlock continued.

John rolled his eyes, embarrassment flowing through him. "Nothing."

Sherlock pushed the pad of paper over and set a biro on it before going back to his book. And John, John couldn't bring himself to move. He swallowed once, twice, and then sat with a harrumph on the bed, sending the papers to the floor.

Sherlock glanced over and sighed. "Okay, I'll admit it. I'm bored. It's stupidly quiet in here and I know you're right there. Just...just say something. Or write, rather."

John snorted and went to the paper, scrawling quickly across it.

THE GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES IS BORED?

Sherlock chewed his lip and shrugged. "I'm almost always bored."

SO YOU NEED ENTERTAINMENT

"As much as you," Sherlock shot back with a small smile.

AND IS THIS HELPING? ME WRITING.

"For now," Sherlock said with a newly formed grin.

The pen lay down on the paper and Sherlock crossed his arms. "Well, yes, I'm bad at small talk. Honestly, though, how long have you been silent? Mrs Hudson says you never even stick around long enough for her to start up a conversation."

SHE HASN'T TRIED BULLYING ME INTO IT. THAT IS UNIQUELY YOU.

Sherlock flapped his hand and rolled his eyes. "I'm hardly as bad as that. Tell me something about yourself, something I haven't already figured out."

John picked up the pen, it seeming to hover there above the paper, and wrote a quick note. 

I LIKE BOND FILMS

Sherlock snorted. "Dear god, tell me something interesting."

NO. THAT WAS SMALL TALK. THAT'S ALL YOU GET RIGHT NOW. IT'S YOUR TURN.

Sherlock reached over to the pen so quickly that his hand bumped into John's. Bumped into. Christ, that had never happened before. They stood there looking down at the spot where they'd touched, both transfixed. John because he'd never touched someone without intent, because he had to WANT to touch someone to become solid, and Sherlock because it never occurred to him that he COULD touch John.

Sherlock breathed carefully through his nose and turned his hand over, his skin brushing against John's, and opened his palm. There was warmth there and John found himself lowering his hand to run his fingers across Sherlock's fingers, gently, gently. 

Sherlock took in a quick breath and laughed nervously. "That's..."

"Unexpected," John finished, unheard.

John let his palm press to cover Sherlock's and closed his eyes. When he felt Sherlock close his hand and grip his own he let out a sob that made the curtains billow and the lights flicker.

"If it's..." Sherlock tried. "If it's too much..."

"No," John said, running his thumb across Sherlock's wrist, feeling the fevered skin where it was so very soft.

Sherlock's eyes closed then and they breathed in unison. When Sherlock finally opened his eyes a few silent moments later they shot wide.

"John," he murmured, seeming to see him.

John felt the walls of the house pass through him and found himself standing at the kerb. Bloody hell. Bloody hell.

_____

By the time that John had made it back up the stairs, needing a few horrifying minutes to be able to control his limbs again, Sherlock was laying on his side in bed with his arms wrapped around his knees. He looked so small, folded in on himself. 

"Sorry about that," John said with an uncomfortable laugh. "Not sure what that was."

When he remembered that Sherlock couldn't hear him he went and pulled the covers up over Sherlock's body. Sherlock blinked up at him, brows furrowed, and John placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I thought," Sherlock whispered, "I thought I'd scared you away."

John's face twisted up and he realised for the first time that Sherlock needed him, that what they were forming was a bond, that he had a friend for the first time in at least ten years. He cared about Sherlock, and Sherlock's uncertainty and pain HURT. He tried to steady his breath and ran his fingers through Sherlock's fringe over and over again until the man seemed to melt in relaxation.

Sherlock shuddered and closed his eyes, whispering once more before seeming to fall asleep. "I can see you...a bit."


	7. Notes On The Mirror

John sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed for a while before he was able to pull himself away. It scared him that he could be seen. Everything he understood about his existence said that was wrong. He had got to the point where it was something he appreciated; the not being seen. He was so incredibly angry all the time that having people see him would be like having to face that anger. No matter what he said or how he looked, that was his. That was kept a secret by nature, or whatever controls the lives of ghosts.

Now-

Christ, and he was out in the yard again, the rain falling through him as he ground his teeth. He felt like such a failure. He'd only just really got the hang of not blacking out and waking up somewhere else. It took him two bloody years, and now he was back to square one. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was due to the panic, that it was quite like the attacks he'd had as a child when his father had too much drink, but he wasn't ready to face that. 

He'd managed to learn a bit of meditation, though he wouldn't call it that, to control the past episodes, but this was different. It made him disgusted that this time being out of control was linked to a warmth in his belly and a feeling of near euphoria. That euphoria, mixed with fear about what it meant, was enough to shock his system, it seemed.

He felt...fond. Yes, that was right. He felt a fondness towards Sherlock and he'd spent so long not feeling anything but anger that the prospect of becoming more fond while still not being anything more than a ghost, a bit of smoke and dreadful magic, as it seemed, was horrifying.

"Ghosts don't have friends," he reminded himself, trudging back into the house and going to sit in the closet just off the kitchen. "You don't get to have that, so stop fooling yourself."

_____

Sherlock woke a shocking ten hours later feeling as though the night before was a dream. A dream or a hallucination. He had been working with chemicals earlier that were technically poisonous, after all, so it was an option.

He shook off the sleep, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. His mouth tasted disgusting and he needed to piss. He hated waking up, it was always so undignified. He padded to the loo, looking around to see if he could spot John, if that was really something he could do, and relieved himself and hopped in the shower. The water always made a groaning noise as it worked its way up the old pipes, and this time was no different. He let the water wash over him and remembered the night before in more clarity.

The feeling of John's hand, warm like a real hand, surprisingly, was so unexpected that he'd felt a quick dump of adrenalin in his system. He felt a bit of it again just then, eyes closed against the spray as he swished warm water around in his mouth before spitting it out. 

It was all going so differently than what he'd expected, and he was grappling with the fact that none of his experiments on ghost life meant anything. He was too close, he'd skewed the data. He shouldn't have spoken in such a friendly manner to John. He shouldn't have even learned his name. He'd buggered it all up.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. He scoffed at himself as he realised how comfortable he'd become with John, how much he wanted his company. More than any person he knew; John was interesting. And not just the fact that he was a ghost, either. John was pushy and met him at every step, refusing to back down, refusing to bend to Sherlock's will. People didn't act like that with him. They were never so stubborn unless they hated him, and Sherlock knew there wasn't hate coming from John.

"John?" he asked aloud, wondering how close the ghost was.

He felt a presence and peered out to find a note written in the fog on the mirror.

HELLO

He chuckled at it. "Yes, hello. What should we do today? I was thinking we could...watch one of those horrible movies you like." 

The mirror became blurry and Sherlock felt a shot of excitement. He could see John, well a shadow of John. Peculiar, but an improvement. He read the next note through John's back.

HORRIBLE MOVIES?

"Oh, come now, you know what I mean. They're unrealistic, and the acting is terrible," Sherlock replied, feeling a bit silly for asking. Of course John wouldn't want to watch a stupid movie with him, and he wouldn't even enjoy it, so-

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

"I take it that's the name of one of them," Sherlock said, swallowing roughly at the shock of getting his way, and nodding. "From Russia With Love it is. I'll...procure a copy." 

And with that John sat on the toilet lid and kept himself from glancing up at Sherlock's naked form.


	8. Movie Night

John followed Sherlock out to the kerb and watched him walk into the street. He was off to 'rustle up a telly', which sounded much less like purchase than John had hoped. The man was mad, after all, and John found himself worrying about his ways while he was gone. Would he be stupidly outspoken and offend the wrong person, would he forget to look both ways because he was stuck in his head? 

It drove John crazy thinking that something could go wrong and he wouldn't know until it was too late. 

When Sherlock was finally out of sight John slowly made his way to the back yard, walking right up to the fence and looking in on Mrs H. He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn't a coward, that he could interact with her and not lose control. His heart, or the approximation of it, was already hammering away.

Mrs Hudson looked up and smiled at him and John felt his stomach drop. 

"You're fine. You're fine. It's only a person. Christ. Christ, you're fine. You used to be a person, for god's sake," John mumbled to himself as she walked to the window and slid it open.

"Wish I could be out in the rain without a brolly," she said, looking up at the sky and sighing. "I suppose it's going to rain all week like this. I'm sure you made Sherlock bring one with him. Silly boy thinks that coat of his will save him, but we all know what his hair does when it rains. He looks like a wet cat, poor dear."

John chuckled at that, without even meaning to, and felt himself relax a bit.

Mrs Hudson paused. "I apologise for frightening you away the other day. I can be a bit presumptuous."

She looked up at him with such hope that John took a step forward and rested his hand on the windowsill. 

"Well," she added, "I see we've come around. That's much more gentlemanly."

John smiled shyly and Mrs H went about fixing a pot of tea and starting in on the washing up.

_____

Before John knew it, Sherlock was up in the attic cursing and banging around. Mrs H had already excused herself and John had been standing out in the rain, not knowing what to do next, for quite some time. He grinned and floated up and through the wall, surprising Sherlock, who could apparently see him do it.

"Should've known you could move through walls," Sherlock said, pushing his wet fringe from his eyes and going back to hooking up the telly.

It looked like a hand-me-down. It was banged up a bit, as was the black box Sherlock stuffed below, ostensibly a DVD player. 

"I suppose we can forgo the food aspect of movie watching, as I won't have any and you can't," Sherlock shot over his shoulder, kneeling and grunting and carrying on.

John chuckled to himself and went to get a towel from the loo for the madman's hair. When he walked back in Sherlock peered up at him and held his hand out, as if it was nothing, as if they'd been friends for years and John wasn't anything to cause a fuss over.

John hadn't expected to be looked at that way again by anyone that mattered and found himself kneeling next to Sherlock and pressing the towel into his hands. He watched as Sherlock gave his hair a perfunctory drying and took it back when prompted. Sherlock was looking right at him, right at his face, and smiling.

"I was a bit soaked, wasn't I?" Sherlock asked after a long moment. "Forgot my umbrella at Nick's. Thankfully, he had exactly what we needed. Never thought he'd pan out when it came to the favor he owed me, but...there it is."

John stood and walked to the desk, leaving the towel to hang over the desk chair. He picked up the pencil sitting there and scrawled a note across the back of some papers. 

YOU'LL BE LUCKY IF YOU DON'T CATCH COLD

Sherlock's joined him at the desk and snorted at it. "You know as well as I that one doesn't catch anything from being cold for such a short amount of time."

He squeaked as the pencil was snatched from his hand, and watched John write out a response.

COLD TEMPERATURES LOWER THE IMMUNE SYSTEM, YOU BERK. THAT COUPLED WITH YOUR HORRENDOUS SLEEPING HABITS, AND I'LL BE SURPRISED IF YOU AREN'T SNIFFLING AWAY BY MORNING.

Sherlock paused for a moment after reading it and then looked over at him. There was a small smile on his lips, but it was the look in his eyes that caught John's breath.

"Last time I try to pull one over on you," Sherlock said, lips twitching with the impulse to grin.

'God,' John thought, 'what I wouldn't do to lick those lips.'

Sherlock broke the moment by grabbing the pencil back and sticking it behind his ear. 

"I have a feeling we'll be needing this as well," Sherlock said, pulling a pad of paper from one of the drawers. "So that you can tell me how very wrong I am about your beloved Bond."

John laughed and shook his head, feeling warm all over and incredibly floaty, even for a ghost.


	9. You're Handsome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to write. Life has been busy and I've had my mind somewhere else.

It was like his first date. They were sitting close to each other, and before long, their sides were pressed together. John was a little perturbed that Sherlock could see him, since staring at the man was no longer an option, at least for a prolonged amount of time, but that agitation only spoke volumes about his feelings for Sherlock.

Halfway through the movie Sherlock tried to get more comfortable and ended up dropping the pencil on the floor, setting it to rolling towards the telly. They both scrambled to get it, a small bit of wood and graphite that was their most prized possession at that time, and ended up on hands and knees on the floor, facing each other and pausing.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed out, fingers going still where they gripped John's.

It was just as electric as the time before, but this time John knew Sherlock could see his hand. He frowned in concentration and sighed when Sherlock's fingers tangled with his own, so soft, so warm. Sherlock's eyes darted up to John's face and John wondered is he was still a blur. This kind of...activity felt like it was changing him.

Sherlock stood carefully, leaving the pencil on the floor, and pulled John back to the sofa by his hand. It was a thrilling invitation. Sherlock looked back at the telly and John settled in beside him. His head was swimming and he thought he could actually feel a heart beating where his chest should have been.

"I...like you," Sherlock murmured, eyes fixed on the screen. "You're smart and pushy. It's...I like you."

John felt nearly mad. How on earth could any of this be happening? He eased his hand from Sherlock's and took a chance, the first chance he'd really taken in years. Sherlock's disappointed look melted away when John wrapped his arm around the man's bony shoulder and pulled him to his chest.

"Are you even watching the movie?" Sherlock asked with a nervous snort.

John, so filled with affection and fear, for once, didn't end up out of doors. That was the second, he knew, that it would have happened. That intense, warm rush. And yet, he was still there, weighted down by Sherlock's upper body, and apparently running his fingers through his hair. Sherlock had gone silent and was pushing into the caress like a cat.

"I don't know what I'm doing," John admitted, happy for once that he couldn't be heard. "Dear god, I have no bloody idea."

_____

They ended up watching telly the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Sherlock had nearly fallen asleep. His mind was more than happy to stay there in John's arm, being petted and cared for, until the end of bloody time, but his body was aching from the sedentary day, and he knew he needed to sprawl out a bit.

"I should head to bed," he said, nuzzling where John's chest should have been.

He felt a kiss to his mop of curls and stood slowly. John was-

John was there. Right there. A little more than black and white, and whole, and human looking, and HANDSOME.

"John," he mumbled, heart hammering and head swimming. It was like his eyes were playing a trick on him. His brain couldn't seem to agree that it was happening and he kept feeling as though John was on a movie screen instead of in front of him.

John looked shocked at first, and looked behind himself and then back. 

"You're handsome," Sherlock blurted, turning John's face from worry to amusement. "No, don't laugh at me. I hadn't expected...hadn't expected to see you. And, and even then, hadn't expected that you would be..."

John snatched the pencil from the floor and tapped it to try to communicate his need. When Sherlock didn't understand, he mimed writing. That did it, and Sherlock smiled in understanding. A pad of paper was placed on the floor, under the pencil. John wrote quickly, even as the telly played on behind them.

HOW MUCH OF ME CAN YOU SEE?

"Everything, but, like you're made of fog," Sherlock replied quickly. "It's like you're in a faded photo."

John's hand moved again.

AM I SOLID?

"Pleasingly so," Sherlock said, immediately feeling a flush begin at the husky quality his voice had taken on.

John laughed, and for the first time Sherlock could see it with his own eyes, as well as feel the warmth. He was beautiful when he laughed. Radiant. No wonder the lights always flickered.

John sat back on his haunches and Sherlock mirrored him, both men smiling softly. 

"I really should go to sleep, though," Sherlock admitted, at length. "Perhaps you could read in bed with me until I fall asleep?"

Sherlock was honestly shocking himself, asking for what he wanted and taking initiative had never been his thing when it came to possible romantic entanglements. That was why he'd never had a boyfriend, or even anything more casual. He just couldn't get the words out. But now, it seemed that was all in the past.

John nodded and went to pick out a book while Sherlock stripped down to his pants and pulled on his pyjamas. Even as his mind was screaming about how it wasn't right, about how John wasn't alive, he was musing to himself about the possibility of a ghost boyfriend. 

"Moving too fast," he whispered to himself as he got into bed. 

John returned to his side and slid into bed next to him. Sherlock turned to face John and giggled at a thought.

"Get the lights?" he asked. "And the telly?"

John rolled his eyes and the small lamp next to the bed turned on as the other lights and the telly switched off. Sherlock grinned at him and John pulled him to his side and went about reading. Sherlock watched him until his eyes refused to stay open, and then fell into a deep sleep.


	10. BSL

Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night to find himself completely wrapped in John's arms. He breathed in and nuzzled against his neck before he realized what he was doing. God, it felt fantastic. John stirred at that and pulled him even closer, fingers moving through his hair.

Soft, Sherlock thought, everything was so soft.

He fell back asleep that way, wrapped in John's embrace and breathing easily.

_____

Ghosts didn't sleep. They weren't alive, so they didn't require it. John could, however, zone out; he could slip into the middle space where consciousness was a step away. He'd done that for a while, but Sherlock's moving and turning in bed brought him back.

It was...easy. Easy to pretend this was normal and go about it as if it wouldn't end badly. Sherlock barely knew anything about him, and, though now he could see him a bit more, John felt he really had nothing to give. He wanted to keep the comfort that was laying in bed holding the person you cared about, but it didn't feel possible to do so.

He breathed against Sherlock's forehead for the remainder of the night, figuring that he would have to bring up the issue of his being a ghost the next day. That night, though, he would have Sherlock in his arms.

_____

Sherlock crawled out of bed early to find John standing at the window. He walked over and looked down to the street, following his gaze.

"Good morning," he squeaked, biting his bottom lip and flushing.

John glanced over at him and smiled softly. A wave of warmth rolled over them and the lights flickered and Sherlock felt a soft brush against his neck.

"Apparently, we don't need central heating. It's only a matter of keeping you happy," Sherlock teased, his voice closer to normal.

John was about to reach out to the fog on the window to reply, but Sherlock's eyes shot wide and John took a step back, worrying that somehow he was visibly changing again.

"John! I've got it! BSL!" Sherlock shouted, running to open his laptop.

John followed, confused, and sat beside him at the desk.

Sherlock tapped at the screen and stood to spin on the spot. "Here. Wonderful. I'll get us some books so that we can start right away. I can't believe I didn't think of it when you first appeared. This is going to be wonderful! Brilliant!" 

John grabbed the closest biro and a scrap of paper and wrote hastily.

SIGN LANGUAGE?

"Yes, of course. So we can talk without paper. Will you come to the library with me?" Sherlock asked, already pulling on clothes and going to brush his teeth.

John appeared next to him and pressed another bit of paper to the mirror as Sherlock scrubbed.

CAN'T LEAVE.

"Oh," Sherlock said around the foam. "Oh, right, well...walk me to the kerb?"

John huffed out a laugh and eased a little, the disappointment of knowing he was stuck melting at Sherlock's brimming enthusiasm. He leaned against the wall and watched as Sherlock attempted to wrestle his hair into some semblance of order. When he finally gave up, John walked with him down the stairs.

"There have to be hundreds of books on learning BSL. We can start as soon as I get back," Sherlock ranted as they left the house. "It will be so much easier than finding a pencil, won't it?"

John filled with warmth again as Sherlock turned that confident grin on him, a soft 'yes' falling from his lips.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped. "And I can learn how to lipread."

John rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Is there nothing I can keep from you?" he asked.

"I'm not that far along in my learning, am I? Suppose you'll have to tell me what you said when I come back," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Yeah, right," John replied fondly, hand clasping Sherlock's neck for a second before backing away.

Sherlock grinned and went to hail a cab, walking backwards to shout back at John. "You disagree, but with a smile! I'll wear you down yet, John!"

_____

The next few months were spent learning sign language and studying for school. They flew past without John getting the chance to speak with Sherlock about his concerns. 

Well, that's a bit of a lie; John could have spoken to him at any time, but he was hesitant. It felt so good to be around Sherlock, to be cared for by him. 

John told himself that when Sherlock brought up the concept of dating he would talk to him about it, but Sherlock never brought it up. They simply went on touching and holding each other and, due to he start of school, studying next to each other. Soft kissed were passed back and forth, but nothing more.

When the subject was finally raised, it was in the aftermath of an accident.

Sherlock had walked into the street without looking and John had jumped after him, succeeding in not only leaving the kerb, but pushing the idiot out of the way of an oncoming car. It was close enough to John's own death, and enough of an evolution in his capabilities, that he knew they needed to be honest.

The car went right through John, but Sherlock had broken his arm in the fall. John, being a newly minted ghost-of-the-world, insisted on dragging him to A and E. They caught a cab, John sure that he was only holding on due to determination, and made their way to the hospital.

"It's not broken," Sherlock said, making the cabbie look back at him through the rear view.

"Looks broken to me, kid," the man retorted.

"Wasn't talking to you," Sherlock shot back.

'Rude,' John signed, rolling his eyes.

"Well, I wasn't," Sherlock said, defensively.

'Yes, I'm aware of that,' John signed, 'but how could he be?'

Sherlock frowned and tried to cross his arms, flinching and huffing as a flush mottled his face.

'Tell him to step on it,' John signed.

"I do think the arm is broken," Sherlock said to the driver. "Go faster."

The cabbie pressed hard on the accelerator, probably hoping to scare Sherlock. It didn't work, as Sherlock was already looking back at John.

"I thought you couldn't leave," Sherlock said, wincing and clenching his jaw.

'So did I,' John signed. 'Before today I always ended up back on the property when I tried to step off the kerb.'

Sherlock smiled at that and John shook his head.

'What?' John signed.

"Well, it is rather romantic, don't you think? The universe won't allow it until I'm in danger," Sherlock said softly, smiling tightly to himself and looking down at his feet, then up again at John bashfully.

And there, there was where John needed to say something. Something like 'there's really no way for us to be together long term', or 'you'll tire of me as you grow older, and I won't even have the solace of death to heal that wound'.

Instead, before he could stop himself, he signed something he'd seen in the literature over and over again. Something he avoided learning just as frequently. Apparently, it had found its way into his mind on its own.

'I love you.'


	11. Good

Not another word was uttered as the cab pulled up to the hospital. Sherlock looked as if he was in shock, and John hoped that it was just his arm. He focused on that, on getting Sherlock into the building and safe, and not what he had just admitted.

When they were finally alone in a room together, waiting for Sherlock's arm to be set, he tried to explain himself.

WHAT I SAID EARLIER, he signed.

Sherlock swallowed and looked at the floor. And...that was annoying.

"I can't bloody sign to you if you won't look at my hands!" John shouted in silence.

He reached out one hand and put it on Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock sagged against him. It was apparent, then, that he was crying. Honest to god, soft sobs and tears. John ran his hand into Sherlock's hair and held him against his chest to try to sooth him.

"Jesus, I'm sorry. God, I shouldn't have said it. I shouldn't have told you. I know that it won't work. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. Bloody selfish of me, telling you that. I'm so sorry."

When Sherlock pulled in a ragged breath and spoke, John was happy that he hadn't been heard.

"I don't know why I'm crying," Sherlock said, sitting back and looking at his own hands with clear confusion. "I just...there's been something choking me since you said...the thing. It's just choking me. It's so ridiculous, it's like I loved you before I even met you, and that doesn't make any sense, and this doesn't make any sense, and my arm is broken and I'm crying and I feel so many things at once that I can't, I can't, I don't understand what's happening. I think you broke me."

John laughed at that, the paper hospital shirt Sherlock was wearing billowing at it. When Sherlock finally looked up into his eyes he was sure he was going to die again from pure happiness.

WE'LL FIGURE IT OUT, he signed.

"I miss you and you're right here," Sherlock said. "I can't be in your arms enough, I just need more and it won't stop. It's the most frightening feeling, how much I love you."

John leaned in and, for the first time, kissed Sherlock gently on the lips. Sherlock melted into him and started to cry again, and John stroked his neck to calm him.

The door opened as they were pulling away for air and the doctor finally walked in.

_____

Sherlock was a bit woozy from the pain medication. He was laying back on his bed while John   
sat next to him holding the hand of his uninsured arm.

"It's like a dream," Sherlock said, smile going lopsided. "I broke the spell with love. You love me so much that you aren't trapped anymore. We're in a fairy tale. That means I'm the prince, and you're...the other prince. And we get our happily ever after. I'm quite hungry."

John snorted at the ongoing babble and sat up.

I'LL MAKE YOU SOME CHOCOLATE MILK. COME DOWN TO THE KITCHEN WITH ME, John signed.

He helped Sherlock up and they made their way down to the kitchen slowly, Sherlock giggling as he stumbled. John finally had Sherlock sitting in a chair, propped up against the wall, and was able to go about making something for them both.

"I love you. I love you and my love can lift spells. I must be magic," Sherlock murmured.

One of the flatmates came in just as John was chopping up squares of cheese for Sherlock and paused. Sherlock turned to him and smiled.

"My ghost boyfriend is making us supper," he said.

The man, thankfully not seeing the knife move on it's own, turned and walked back out.

"I'm going to buy this house. I don't want to see his face again," Sherlock mumbled to himself.

John chuckled at him.

_____

The next morning Sherlock woke early and got on the phone. He was talking to someone he obviously didn't like that much, and John wasn't sure who it was until he said his name. He'd heard plenty of bad things about Mycroft Holmes.

"Well, you do want me to stay in London, don't you? This way you can know where I am at all times," Sherlock said, pacing the floor. "Well, I'm sure you've seen it. No. recently renovated. I don't care, put your name on the deed. No. No, I won't change my mind."

There was a long pause and John almost signed to Sherlock to ask what he was talking about.

"No. Yes. Fine...thank you. I can't do dinner this Sunday. Well, I can't. Friday? Fine, if I have to. Yes, goodbye," Sherlock rang off with a sigh and lay back on the bed.

FAMILY TROUBLE? John signed.

"Always. Took him less time to agree to the purchase than I thought it would, though. He's setting it up today. Would you come to my parent's on Friday?" Sherlock asked, looking nervous. 

SURE. PURCHASE OF WHAT? John signed.

"The house, of course. We will have to give them all thirty day notice of move out, but that time will pass quickly, what with break only a week away," Sherlock explained. "Would you come to Southampton with the family? It'll be terribly boring without you."

John couldn't believe it. YOU'RE BUYING THE HOUSE?

"I'm buying US the house. Unless you'd like to live somewhere else, now that you can," Sherlock replied calmly.

John grinned at him and poked him with his toe. YOU NEVER SAID YOU WERE FILTHY RICH.

"I supposed it was obvious," Sherlock replied, climbing back under the covers. "Now come here."

John laughed and crawled under the covers, letting Sherlock pull and prod him into the right position for full body contact.

"We really could find somewhere else," Sherlock murmured against John's chest, his cast itchy against John's abdomen.

NO, John signed in the air.

"Good," Sherlock said, closing his eyes.

"Good," John murmured against Sherlock's brow.


	12. Olfactory

Friday came and John had become a bit worried. What is one to do at their significant other's parent's house if they can't be seen. He'd jumped up and down in front of Mike several times in the days leading up to the dinner to make sure he couldn't be seen by a random stranger. He couldn't.

YOU DO REALISE YOU CAN'T TALK TO ME AT YOUR PARENT'S HOUSE, John signed.

"I'll bring the skull," Sherlock replied, not showing even a bit of concern.

YOU SAY THAT AS IF I SHOULD KNOW WHAT IT MEANS, AND YET, John signed back, pacing the floor and walking out of the room and to the loo.

He was soon joined by Sherlock, the man a bit curled in on himself and looking down at the floor.

"Damn it," John said to no one.

He pulled Sherlock to his chest and ran his hands into his hair. That always seemed to soothe him. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist and breathed in against his neck, close as he was. He let out a low moan and John drew back.

"You smell," he sputtered.

John scrunched up his nose and shook his head. WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

Sherlock didn't say another word, pulling him back into the bedroom and shoving him down on the bed.

SHERLOCK, John signed, taken aback by the sudden move.

"Oh, god. Oh, god," Sherlock repeated, leaning down to nuzzle John's neck and opening his mouth against it, breath warm and humid. "I can smell you and it's divine! Oh, John."

And at that point, it was all John could do to hold onto Sherlock's hips as the man writhed on top of him. He grunted into Sherlock's mouth and pressed upwards, Sherlock crying out and scrambling to remove his trousers and pants, tossing them aside. 

John had a moment of worry; he'd never removed his clothes, he didn't even think of them as real. Could they be removed? His body, whatever it was, was responding quickly and he thought that if he wasn't able to remove the clothes he might just go mad and light the bloody house on fire-

Sherlock had slithered down his body as John panicked and was now rubbing his face along John's crotch and inhaling deeply. John didn't have to wait much longer for the answer to the previous worry, as Sherlock was yanking his denims down and rubbing his nose into the coarse hair covering John's bollocks. John was panting and trying valiantly not to thrust his hips, but the battle was lost when Sherlock took his cock between his lips and hummed.

Wetness, and warmth, and John was falling into a million pieces.

Sherlock groaned and pulled off, moving to recapture John's mouth. John licked between his lips and sighed at the taste of him as Sherlock began thrusting his hips.

"Jesus," John said, panting against Sherlock's ear. "I haven't, that is, I didn't know I could, JESUS!"

Sherlock felt John pulse and thrust two more times, tensing and coming on John's stomach before collapsing.

_____

They lay there on the bed for a full half hour, exchanging soft, deep kisses and their warmth. When Sherlock finally rolled off of John he ran a finger through the come on John's abdomen and tilted his head.

"Do you reckon any of this is from you?" he asked, looking up to John's face to read his lips.

"Christ, you really are a handful," John said with a snort.

"I believe I'm a handful and a half," Sherlock replied haughtily.

AND WHEN EXACTLY DID YOUR SEX DRIVE KICK IN? John signed, still more comfortable like that.

"Oh, I've known that I wanted to get you out of your trousers since the day we touched," Sherlock said, laying back down and twining their fingers together.

"That long?" John asked.

"You don't have to annunciate so loudly," Sherlock teased; the joke, of course, being that John's words made no sound. "And, yes. Is that...is that alright?"

"I'm just incredibly glad that you finally broke," John admitted. "I didn't want to press the issue if, if I couldn't...you, know."

"Ejaculate? Yes, that was a bit of a concern, wasn't it? Good thing my brain was hormone muddled and eager. Now, I have to shower and you have to see if you can get back into your denims, because we have a horrible dinner to attend."

John watched Sherlock go and sat wondering how all of it had come to pass. The thought that he would have to clean fluid from his skin made him feel horribly nostalgic for the messiness of being human. This, though, was definitely becoming more comfortable.


End file.
